They Spoke French
by Hatter and Hare Productions
Summary: It is appropriate that they call French the language of love, for it is all these two lovers speak. A mystery pairing for the reader to guess, but it should not be too hard. Honest criticism desired  with good reason , but no flames, PLEASE?


_**They Spoke French**_

By the March Hare

They would only speak French when together. They would walk down the streets of the town and speak wonderful words like _amor, belle, provocant, _et cetera, et cetera_._

Hook could only catch half of it, his knowledge of French only so-so, but Frollo caught every word he heard. Gaston was too busy gloating to notice, but the two gentlemen never translated what the two lovers were really saying as they giggled, danced, and held on to each other as they went down the streets. This, of course, angered every other villain to no end.

They would meet in the morning twilight, before the streets were crowded, take off their shoes, and sit down by the docks and (water lapping their feet) tell how the night had gone for them. She would talk about what dreams she had had, and she would always tell them in detail, how her arms had become wings, how the sky opened up to her, how she flew through glass menageries of ruby, and emerald, and sapphire.

"And violet?" he would inquire like a child that knew the answer yet asked anyway for fun.

"Yes," she pecked his lips, smiling sweetly, "and violet."

She would then turnaround and ask how he had slept. He would never answer, changing the subject immediately to bits of gossips he had heard or what he had seen on his way here.

She would secretly understand why, and go along with his idle prattle.

His eyes always told her everything.

Soon, wet from splashing their bare feet in the ocean water, the Sun would rise up and twilight would fade to dawn. They would then turn, stare, and just stare, into the other's eyes, until they would finally kiss, kiss until the their lips tired of the act. Slowly, unwillingly, they would unlock lips and hands, and go to their work.

He would spend every moment thinking of her, each time he flipped love or loneliness.

She would think of him every time she saw a happy couple watch the show or stroll streets.

Or when she saw a women crying, alone and unloved.

Then, in the noon, when the sun was sinking and the Italians would songs of love, lost, and beautiful nights, they would meet at the same corner they met every morning, and they would talk again. She would tell him how it went, how much she had received that day, and any other highlights of the day.

He would smile, and laugh, and listen, but rarely would he talk about his work, unless she begged him too (and that was every time). So he would go on and talk for about a minute, not because he did not want to talk, but because there was little good in his life.

Except her.

And he would tell her that, tell her how he had thought about her every waking moment, and her swaying hips and her raven hair. And her eyes. He would never miss a chance to tell her about her eyes, her emerald eyes that he swore the gods envied.

She would turn to him and correct him. "There is but one God," she said, pointing a finger at his chest, "and he loves you."

He always went silent after that, his eyes going back and forth in thought and regret.

They would go, sometimes, to the Villain's Vogue, where they would join the villains in card games, or drinks, or just to chat. Everyone (save Frollo, who just sat back and tried not to look like he was bitter) would greet them fondly. Ursula would comment on her hair, Gaston would brag about his latest achievements to both of them, and Hook would elbow the man and pull him aside to ask how things were going, and for a moment the two lovers would let themselves be separated.

Just a moment.

Then, at midnight, they would leave the villains and go off to the plaza, with its marble fountains and street lights (courtesy of the Kingdom of Corona). There they would just sway to the street musicians, for her legs were always tired after a day's work, and he would understand. Instead of asking her to dance (at least at first), he would massage her feet and tell her tales of all kinds. About peasants and kings, cowards and brave men, fools and wise men, and she would listen, never interrupting his tale or his hands rubbing her relieved feet.

After a night of talking, laughing, swaying, and holding hands, they would make their way back to the corner where they always met. There, before they left each other for their respective homes, she or he would ask a serious question, the kind of question that always would make one's cheeks redden or for their heads to look down at their feet like they would answer for them. She would ask what it was like, to watch your own father get lynched, or he would ask where her mother was. She was always more willing to answer these sort of questions than he was, yet he tried, in the simplest of ways.

She would understand.

However, both had a hard time talking about their pasts. Though he was worse off when it came to such things, she had done things she was not proud of either. One would think of her greatest glory and famed compassion and say "What things?"

Only 3 men unhung knew of them, and once she told you them they were never mentioned again.

The past was the past.

They both knew this, understood this, and it was one of the reasons they loved each other. There were no brave faces, no lies or deceptions, no need to run.

When the fireflies could be seen dancing in the sky, and the late night-partying shouts of wanderers and vagabonds filled the air, they would hold each other for a moment.

A minute.

An hour.

Forever. Breathing each other in like a man smelling the roses on his way to the gallows.

A kiss, a bittersweet smile, and a brave face, they would unlock hands, slowly, uncertainly, afraid, and hopeful.

There was always tomorrow.

He would fade into the darkness, a mischievous grin masking his fearful countenance.

"_Au revoir."_

She would stand there, like the love struck fool she was, in the darkness, alone.

"_Au revoir."_

She would then find the strength (though it was hard to find and almost impossible to hold) to go home, check on her friends and family, and go to bed.

Her adopted brother would ask her how it went. She would say "good", or "fine", or "quiet", or some other one word explanation that would satisfy his concern. He would then nod his head and go on his way.

She would lay there (despite her physical exhaustion) for a few moments, for minutes, or hours and think of her love's large, bony hand that held _such_ an inner fire. She would kiss his bright eyes, stroke his scars, hold him all night long.

Then she would slowly, yet surely, always, fall fast asleep and dreams of flying hand in hand (or was it wing in wing?) with her love into the distant horizon, free as birds.

While she dreamed of angels, he would dream (or was that remember?) of being trapped in Hell, demons picking at his flesh or branding his flesh, They would pluck his eyes out and using them like olives in their martinis, made of his blood and tears. They would slit his throat, or impale him on a pike, or (their personal favorite) chain him to a pillar of brimstone and cut open his back, pulling his lungs through his ribs. They would then dance around, pointing and laughing "Look, look! See how far the angel has fallen!"

And he could do nothing.

Nothing.

Yet, sometimes, on the nights when their laughter was loudest, and their torments the hardest to bear, a flash of light would break through the rock and, like an angel of mercy, she would appear. Clothed in pure white and singing songs of mercy and forgiveness, she would banish the demons with a flick of her hand, pure kindness and compassion and righteous fury flowing out of her. She would then kneel down, put his lungs back in his chest, unchain him from the brimstone rock, and heal his wounds in her tears.

And she would lead him, away from the pits of screaming souls and the lakes of fire, to a land flowing with milk, and honey, and eternal love.

The next morning, before the Sun was risen and the birds were chirping their songs, she would greet him at the docks with a smile and ask how he was doing.

Without a single word, he would laugh, wrap his large hands around her waist, and twirl her around in the morning twilight. He would laugh, and she would laugh, and both would get dizzy, yet for a moment they were free.

Free of the past, free of the shame, free of the pain.

And when they stopped, he would put her down, on her feet, hold her steady (though he was no better off), and tell her about how wonderful life was, and how blessed he was, and how beautiful she was, and what the wedding would be like, and how the children would look, with their father's chin, and their mother's lips, and their grandmother's song, and their grandfather's hands.

And they would fly away, from everyone and everything, and be free, dancing in the street and singing that sweet song of freedom..

_O, Solomon done fly away_

_Solomon done gone_

_Solomon cut across the sky_

_Solomon gone home…_

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I own nothing but a roommate that plans to kill me in my sleep. (Don't we all?)<p>

All right, clarification time! This takes place in my version of the Disney Kingdom, where my stories for Disney are mostly set. The Villain's Vogue is like a club/bar for Disney Villains. This one-shot _may_ or may not of happened before my story "V.I.P.", but for now just consider this a break from my major writing. The song at the end is from the book "The Song of Solomon" by Toni Morrison.

Please forgive me for any mistakes or unclear bits. Do tell me if you find any so I can fix them.


End file.
